Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  Lizzy’s mom marched for Civil Rights, toting hand-made placards and occasionally getting herself into trouble with the police. Mark’s mom believed in Ivy League schools, country clubs, and Wall Street producing stable citizens. Lizzy attended progressive schools in Greenwich Village, while Mark attended one of the best prep boarding schools in New England, lonely, miserable, but ultimately, paving the way for a fine future in investment counseling at his father’s firm in lower Manhattan.

  When Yale happily accepted Mark as a business student minoring in math, Lizzy was thrilled to be majoring in textiles at the New York School of Design.

  “Son, you do make me proud,” commented Mark’s mom when he graduated cum laude. She couldn’t resist adjusting his cap and tassel, tweaking it just so on his head.

  “Yes, and when you get your MBA behind you, you will be able to join our investment firm, just like my father before me and then, the sky’s the limit,” his father chimed in, searching the crowd for prospective clients.

  Secretly, Lizzy’s mom wondered about the validity of a Masters in Textile Design, but was grateful that at least it wasn’t some inane business degree. Flashing back on her own college experience, she shuddered at the thought of her haughty roommate, Lucille Hartford, a business major who always made sure Jewish girls understood the rules: they were tolerated, but never completely welcome.

  During the past four years, Mark had taken some mental notes on the co-eds at Yale—smart, chic, and slim, similar to the girls he had grown up with, and that was the problem. The boredom factor kept seeping in. Even before these co-eds spoke, he instinctively knew what they were about to say. Going to bed with any of them didn’t generate any spectacular sparks, either, simply reflexive passion, then release.

  Most of Lizzy’s art student boyfriends were laced with tattoos and earrings, and housed in the same ongoing outfit: tattered jeans, encrusted with strategically placed paint spots, and a torn, thrift store T-shirt. Completing the ensemble was either a heavy flannel lumberman’s coat or a replica of a 1940’s bomber jacket.

  One of them stayed on, devouring Ruth’s food and irritating her to no end, but after Lizzy announced she had become pregnant and her boyfriend had split, her mom could only sigh, take a deep breath, and wonder where she had gone wrong.

  Yet her daughter’s art quilts proved to be worth their weight in gold. Bold, innovative geometric designs, sewn with warm, vivid colors, soon landed her one of the most successful artist reps in the city. As her reputation grew, so did her promotional abilities and monetary acumen, to the delight of her rep and awe of her mother. Still, for all her ‘success’—the competitions, the galleries, and the prestigious commissions—with her daughter Natalie in tow, Lizzy could never shake the feeling of ‘what about me? Who’s gonna take care of me?’

  Charging up the corporate ladder, Mark stayed focused as the 1980’s arrived and with it, mergers and acquisitions. Instinctively, he understood which lower-end clients to avoid by simply delegating them to other stockbrokers, and which high-rollers who wanted to buy companies in financial trouble to knock himself out over. His plan worked. To the envy of many of his colleagues, he quickly became “The Golden Boy,” so named half-admiringly, half-flirtatiously by the women; mentioned in snide, envious tones by the men.

  Nights and weekends for him were consumed by take-home work and take-out gourmet deli food from his favorite restaurant Mangia, around the corner from his office. A Spaghetti ajo-ojo one night, a Quiche Lorraine the next, and whenever his parents called up to ogle over the latest acquisition of a new client he had brought in, he remained somewhat removed.

  “Honey, I have some sad, but possibly good news for you,” Ruth informed Lizzy one day, watching her daughter pour over a monthly earnings spreadsheet.

  “That sounds ominous,” Lizzy muttered without looking up.

  “Your Uncle Maury just passed away, leaving you assets in a stock portfolio. You are supposed to hear from the estate lawyers any day now and they’re gonna send you to an assigned investment counselor.”

  Lizzy put her financial records down on the coffee table. “Wow. I didn’t really know Uncle Maury all that well. That’s really amazing.”

  “Well, sweetie, don’t get too excited. Your Uncle Maury was not such a great businessman. Besides, whatever he did earn, was whittled away by that despicable, crooked investment counselor, Van de Hooten. So, when you do go in to discuss all this, be careful of the sharks.”

  “OK, Mom, OK.” Here we go again, Lizzy sighed. The-Evils-of-the-Corporate-World. Next, her mom would launch into how her father had been robbed by greedy, corporate lawyers, and her grandfather had nearly jumped out the window during the Stock Market Crash of ’29 because his investment counselor neighbor Richard Van de Hooten had sold him a bill of goods. Oh, and what about her nasty college roommate, Lucille Hartford? She was involved in business, too. Once her mother got started, there would be no end to the tirade.

  When the call did come from her Uncle’s investment counselors, she carefully jotted down the name of the investment firm, nestled in the heart of Wall Street and the New York Stock Exchange. She recognized the address. Gee, they’re right next to that great deli, ‘Mangia’, she thought. It was always such a treat to go to that place on her way to Brooklyn. For some reason, whenever she went in there to order take-out, she would play a make-believe game to help pass the time. According to her, each stockbroker/ secretary/investment counselor/businessman had a rich fantasy life, so by the time she had fully analyzed people sitting in their booths, her order was packaged, ready to go.

  Forty-five minutes before her afternoon meeting with the investment counselor, she was in top form, playing her game at Mangia’s as she nibbled on some lunch. This one’s definitely two-faced. He’s got a wife, two-point-five kids out in Scarsdale, and a wild, sexy mistress in Greenwich Village. That one dresses in Armani three-piece suits during the day, and at night, cross-dresses in Versace. This one pretends she’s a straight-laced secretary at work, but secretly gorges on oysters and dark chocolates while writing romance novels at night. And this one...

  This one was a puzzler. Handsome, yes, stockbroker-type, to be sure, but there was also a sensitivity about his face that touched her. He ate unobtrusively, reading some sort of large, paperback book. She couldn’t quite read the title, but it had something to do with the word ‘Creative,’ so she perked up. Any movement he initiated was graceful, yet at the same time, quite masculine.

  She noticed that she and the man had finished eating about the same time, but as they both stood up to go, she hung back slightly, fidgeting with her napkin, so they wouldn’t enter the revolving door at the same time. Caught off guard by her own sudden modesty, she let out a deep, resonating laugh. Several people turned to look at her, including him. She blushed at his long stare, quickly glancing down at the floor and steadying herself before looking back up at him. But he had already left. You just need a little TLC, Lizzy, you’ve been without any for too long, she mused. Calm down. Get a grip.

  The New York Stock Exchange convulsed with flying papers, computer screens flashing every two feet, and jacketless stockbrokers yelling at the top of their lungs, fast on their way to guaranteed heart attacks. Lizzy was quietly led upstairs to the Executive Investment Counselor offices, and like Lot’s wife in Sodom and Gomorrah, took one last look at the entire scene, riveted. So this was the infamous ‘Shark Pen.’

  Upstairs lay an entirely different world—plush, beige carpets spilled out into lavish executive suites, some with large picture windows, others with smaller, less conspicuous views. The bigger the window, the more elevated the company stature, she had read somewhere.

  Mark Salisbury’s corner office contained two enormous picture windows, a comfortable Shabby-Chic slipcovered couch surrounded by two Windsor chairs, and a Shaker-style coffee table. The two remaining walls were coated with books, stuffed into distressed wooden bookcases.

  With no Mr. Salisbury in sight, Lizzy
entertained herself by perusing the books, curious to find out what this new advisor was all about. There were plenty of the usual Stocks and Dividend volumes of course, but what threw Lizzy off were all the art and art history books.

  It had been her experience that when people collected coffee-table art books, they weren’t that knowledgeable about art, they just liked the way the covers looked in their living rooms; a touch of culture in an otherwise tasteless setting. But these books were a true art lover’s find, with titles she hadn’t seen since her early art school days. There was even one on the history of textile design. She was impressed. Maybe this meeting was salvageable, after all.

  She heard a rustle behind her and spun around, expecting some corpulent, middle-aged balding man sporting a Signa Phi pinkie ring, white shirt, black striped tie, and a five thousand dollar suit. But it was him. Large, virile hands shifted papers on top of a mammoth, leathered-surfaced mahogany desk as he gazed up at her. He politely motioned for her to sit down next to his desk, stammering, “Ah—ah— haven’t I met you—before?”

  “Yes, in Mangia’s, I believe, just now.” Self-consciously, she jerked her right hand up against her warming cheek.

  But it was Mark’s face that flushed pink. He had definitely noticed her before; in fact, had been surprised by his own reaction to this zaftig, curly haired woman, who reminded him of some of the women in Ruben’s paintings he had seen at the Metropolitan Museum as a teenager. His first instinct had been to reach out and touch their softness then, and now, so close to Lizzy’s brown eyes, blanketed by such thick eyelashes, he could feel the same magnetic field drawing him in.

  For a few seconds, his usual financial spiel vanished while he pulled himself together. Then, starting in on his pitch, he informed her she wasn’t going to be rich, but she could definitely change her lifestyle somewhat, perhaps even move out of her mother’s apartment in Brooklyn and live across the Hudson River. Maybe try country living.

  Lizzy watched his lips and hands move, but had trouble concentrating. “I see you have a great collection of art books. That’s very dear to my heart, you know,” she inserted finally, from out of nowhere.

  Immediately, the topic switched to art quilts and in particular, textile design. As they talked, it was as if he, too, were wrapped up inside her rose-colored satin comforter with her, burrowing around together, forgetting everyone else. Every few minutes she would lean forward and tap him gently on his arm for emphasis. The lightest of touches, he felt stroked in a way he had never experienced before. He was hooked.

  Asking her out for a cup of coffee seemed a natural progression, and after calling her mom, she accompanied him to a little bar ‘n grill near his apartment on the Upper West Side. He couldn’t stop staring at her, and as he ushered her through the door, he could sense her soft skin underneath her 1940’s vintage style dress. He wanted to feel more.

  Coffee was followed by drinks, at which point Lizzy watched him order a very expensive Pinot Noir quickly and decisively. Unused to such capable hands, she sat back, sipping her wine, the weight of responsibility floating up and away from her. It was like a drug.

  “You know, I’ve been wondering if Back-End Mutual funds would be a good way to go?” Lizzy’s second glass of wine was even better than her first.

  Mark blinked twice. “How do you even know about that?”

  “Why? Just because I’m an artist, I can’t read “The Wall Street Journal?”

  “I think it’s great, that’s all. Back-Ends are OK, but bonds in general, are safer,” he replied, grinning.

  “Really! I heard high yield bonds are something to watch out for!”

  “Junk Bonds? Yes, of course! I meant Guaranteed Bonds, Investment Grade Bonds, or just Closed-End Bond Funds.”

  Angling back even further in her chair, her dark, shoulder length curls bordered her face as the candlelight highlighted her eyes and cheekbones.

  They ended up in bed, of course, clinging to each other like two soaked cats finally finding a warm, dry spot together in the middle of a downpour, and when the typical NYPD sirens sounded at five a.m., there was only the flutter of Mark’s eyes trying to open.

  “I want you to meet my Natalie,” a naked Lizzy cooed later on Mark’s lap, his queen size down comforter keeping their body heat warm and consistent.

  “I’d have suggested that if you hadn’t beaten me to it!” Mark laughed, nuzzling her throat and nibbling on her ear.

  But two days later, a pinprick surfaced on their romantic bubble when Mark called Lizzy’s house. “Oh yes…you’re the investment counselor, aren’t you?”

  Cringing at her mother’s tone, Lizzy rushed over to the phone and grabbed it with a snake-like hiss. She cupped the phone and started gurgling. “Hi, I was hoping to hear from you tonight. Yes—I know—I feel the same. When? Uh-oh, I have a gallery opening that night. Can we make it another? You want to come to it? Really? OK, it’s at the Stevenson Gallery on 85th and Madison. Seven p.m., tomorrow night. See you there.” By the time she had hung up, she couldn’t stop giggling.

  She took one look at her mother’s arched eyebrows and grimaced. “OK, Mom, I get it! Leave me alone! Who knows where it will end. But for now, he’s making me very happy. Isn’t that the most important thing?”

  “I just don’t trust that whole business investment thing, that’s all. These people are different from us. Most of them are crooks, by the way.”

  “For God’s sakes! I know our family got burned once, but that doesn’t mean it will happen again. My gut tells me this guy wouldn’t try to hurt me.”

  Ruth shifted from one foot to the other. “Don’t forget, I spent a lot of my college years dealing with business people like Lucille Hartford, and trust me, they’re all alike!” Stalking off, she made sure her one short, jarring snort was more than audible.

  At the exhibit, Mark appeared with a couple of his cronies. Their khaki pants, Yves Saint Laurent belts, pale blue Pierre Cardin shirts, and navy blue Armani jackets couldn’t compete with the spiky hair, black leather tights, high-heeled boots topped by black leg warmers, and colorful tunics that Lizzy’s girlfriends all wore. But Mark seemed oblivious. He wandered throughout the gallery, searching for Lizzy and eavesdropping on pretentious conversations.

  His friends did admit her work was excellent, but questioned his sudden interest in such a woman. Where was the usual blonde executive they were used to seeing him with and envying him for? What did he see in this earthy artist and what about his parents? The Van de Hootens having this voluptuous dark-haired vixen over to their apartment for a dinner party? Yeah, right. When Mark wasn’t in close proximity, his friends spent the evening making the usual insinuations and sexual wisecracks.

  Lizzy’s fellow artists weren’t much better. ‘Come on, Lizzy,’ they sneered. ‘You must be dating him just for the money. Are you planning on trading in your artist lifestyle for Versace accessories, Givenchy tailored suits, or Donna Karan wear for the unstoppable Power Woman Executive?’

  Aware of the chilly reception, Mark kept defiantly slipping a possessive arm around Lizzy’s waist whenever possible, and when her mom and Natalie arrived, just seeing the businessman with her daughter made Ruth hyperventilate. But Mark ignored everyone and knelt down to talk with Natalie eye-to-eye. Reeling him in with the same trusting, dark brown eyes as her mother, he was smitten, and with her small hand constantly clasped in his, by the end of the evening they looked as if they could have been father and daughter.

  Finally, Lizzy helped Ruth on with her coat, murmuring, “See, Mom? Look how great he is with Natalie. He’s not going to hurt us.” Ruth made an effort to smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

  There was no stopping the two lovers after that. They spent hours walking around the Wall Street area on lunch breaks, up Wall Street to William Street, left on Pine Street, left again on Nassau Street; back down to Wall Street. Weekends ended up at the Brooklyn Zoo, communing with the elephants, hippopotamuses, giraffes, and flamingos, with
Natalie running back and forth between the two grownups, clutching an ice cream popsicle and shrieking with laughter.

  But The War had already begun.

  Her mom started in first. “I hope you know what you’re doing. You have a responsibility to your little girl. It’s not just about you now. You can no longer bring anyone home and assume it’ll work out.”

  Lizzy stared in disbelief. What was wrong with her? After seeing Mark interact with their family on numerous occasions, there wasn’t one act that he had done that would justify such an outburst. It was that damned obsession against the corporate world. She tried to reason with Ruth repeatedly, but it was no use; the years of resentment of Lucille Hartford and her crowd had taken its toll.

  Over in Manhattan, a similar process was underway. “Hello, dear. I hear through the grapevine you have a new girlfriend.” His mother tried to sound cheerful, but the tightness sifted through.

  Mark stiffened. Here we go. “Yes, I have been dating someone, Mother. She’s a quilt/textile designer, very artistic, a Democrat, and oh, by the way—she’s Jewish.”

  Silence. “Oh, I see…”

  “Is there anything else you need to know, Mother?”

  “Now, dear, there’s no need to get so snippety. I’m sure you’re having fun. I wouldn’t dream of interfering!” Her voice instantly reverted back to her old patterns.

  He began to freeze—the little boy again, waiting up in his room for a good night kiss. But just picturing Lizzy on his bed, soft, naked, her arms beckoning, he found his voice. “What exactly is it that you object to, Mother? The fact that she’s an artist, or that she’s Jewish?”

  “Dear, I don’t even know the girl.” The word ‘know’ arced up and down, like a member of the British royal household, invited in for a spot of tea.